


Anchor

by TangoDancer



Series: Flower in Adversity [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: F/M, M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-25 03:22:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10755702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TangoDancer/pseuds/TangoDancer
Summary: “So that’s where the four of you disappeared to for five years? Outer space?”McClain nods. Him being the spokesperson doesn’t come as much of a surprise: Kogane was always aloof even before he was kicked out, and Holt loved her computers more than human company. Garret, on the other hand, was as amicable as they come, but his gentle nature usually took a backseat to McClain’s boisterous personality.OR extraterrestrial life is a thing, aliens come in all shades of the spectrum, and Iverson would love to know how the fuck some of his missing personnel ended up in space, thank you very much.





	Anchor

The aliens come from nowhere. It’s summer break at the Garrison, so only a select few staff members and students are still on site when they break down the doors and flood in, an army of identical robots bearing purple symbols and led by a handful of purple-skinned officers with glowing yellow eyes. Lieutenant Dos Santos tries to talk to them, figure out what’s going on and maybe negotiate. He takes a blow to the head and crumbles like a puppet with its strings cut. The five students who’d had the bad idea to stay for the holidays scream at the sight. Iverson grits his teeth, raises his sidearm. He’s devoted his life to this institution, and he’ll be damned if he lets if fall without at least some resistance.

Pain erupts at the back of his skull before he can fire the first shot, and then there’s nothing.

He’s lying on the floor when he comes to, a low hum not unlike that of an engine running through the cold surface. Careful to keep his breathing even, he doesn’t open his eyes and instead listens for a clue as to his whereabouts. But the only sounds to be heard are a girl’s terrified if muffled sobs and a few muttered reassurances, and he gives up when it becomes clear there are no enemies to take by surprise.

Cracking his eyes open, he’s relieved to find that the lighting in the room is dim, but less so that it’s also an alien shade of purple bathing the dark metal of the walls in eerie shadows. He straightens himself into a sitting position with Lieutenant Ryu’s help, and makes a careful sweep of the room. There’s not much to be gathered from it, unfortunately—completely bare, devoid of windows or any other openings apart from a closed door.

His five students are huddled together, Asana currently crying her eyes out in Captain Hedrick’s chest even as all try to comfort her as best they can. Their own fear is clear on their faces, however, and it’s obvious that they don’t believe in their own reassurances. To her credit, Hedrick is holding it together fairly well, her voice steady and her hand firm as she rubs the student’s back comfortingly. Nothing he can do there.

On the other hand, Dos Santos is still unconscious, his head crudely bandaged with the shreds of Lieutenant Ryu’s jacket, if the lack of said garment on the man’s person is any indication.

“He hasn’t woken up at all since the attack,” Ryu murmurs in response to Iverson’s questioning glance.

Iverson frowns and reaches out to Dos Santos’ neck. His pulse is strong but slower than he’d like. He looks around, wondering if there’s any chance to get some medical care, only for Ryu to apparently read his thoughts again.

“We tried to ask for help, but they either didn't understand or didn't care.” His eyes flicker over to the door. "I don't think it's their way, to be honest."

“Not their way? What the hell does that mean?”

Ryu’s lips press into a thin line. “I’d assume they think only the strong survive, sir.”

Iverson glances at the students. At Asana’s slim, shaking form, at Adisa’s gentle eyes as he tries to comfort her. At Carson, Park and Petrov. Teenagers, none of them prepared for this kind of situation. They don’t stand a chance.

“Where are we?” he asks, to try and distract himself from the thought of his students’ inevitable demise.

“I’m not sure. We couldn’t see a lot, but they made us go into some sort of ship, and transferred us to another, bigger one from there, so I’d say…” Ryu swallows hard. “I think we’re in space.”

The words settle in his chest like a punch to the gut, and Iverson has to lean back against the wall and close his eyes for a second. Space. They were just abducted by aliens and probably taken to space. For the head of an organization which supposedly doesn’t believe in aliens in the first place, this is a fucking lot to take in.

Iverson screws his eyes shut and wills this entire mess away.

It doesn’t work.

* * *

 

Asana calms down after a while, and falls into an exhausted sleep. Hedrick’s eyes are drooping, but she visibly keeps herself awake, eyes darting over to the students gathered around her every time she jerks herself awake. Adisa’s conscious, too, but the other four passed out some time ago—it’s difficult to evaluate the passage of time when you’re in a sealed room. Given how hungry he’s starting to be, though, Iverson would wager it’s been a few hours at least.

How long until they reach their destination, wherever it might be? It takes three months to get to Kerberos, which is close, but those aliens are obviously much more advanced technology-wise than Earth is, so they could already be lightyears away for all he knows.

Ryu stiffens. “Did you hear that?”

Iverson frowns and listens, but apart from the steady hum of the engines, there’s nothing.

“I don’t—”

Then he hears it. The clash of metal against metal, something heavy clattering to the floor, and a strange noise not unlike the laser pistols from those old movies. Hedrick and Adisa are watching the door now, too, eyes wide in anticipation.

Everything falls silent. They listen for footsteps, fighting, alarms, anything. Seconds tick by, centuries, maybe. Iverson turns away. 

The door hisses open.

Iverson's head whips towards the entrance so fast his muscles seize. More purple aliens? 

But it’s a man. Most of his face is obscured by a blue-tinged visor, but his chin is definitely pale white—tainted with the faintest tinge of purple by the light, and his eyes aren’t yellow. He’s clad in a white, red and black spacesuit, a matching sword held confidently in his hand.

“Be quiet. Follow me.” He instructs, and before he knows it, Iverson is moving. With Ryu’s help, he heaves up Dos Santos’ inert body, and waits for Hedrick to wake her brood before hesitantly stepping into the hallway. The floor is littered with the smoking remains of alien robots, sliced through with vicious precision, and he hears more than one whimper from the teenagers. The red man is already moving swiftly down the hall, though, and Iverson isn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. If it’s a human who’s apparently competent enough to hold his own against the aliens and wants to free them, he’s not going to complain.

That doesn’t stop him from studying the stranger. It might have been a while, but he's a career soldier and he still knows his tricks. Saving them means nothing in the long run. For all he knows, he might be a slave-trader of some kind. So he’ll follow as long as it serves his interests, but he'll do so with all due precautions.

What he finds isn’t very reassuring.

Even from his place at the back of the group, it’s clear that the stranger moves like a hardened soldier, a fighter. There’s a subtle grace to his movements, an economy and confidence to them that speaks of years of intensive training. His muscles are loose in that way that only true veterans perfect over time: a fake kind of relaxation, deceitful to the enemy who’d think to take him by surprise when he’s ready as he’ll ever be. The grip on his sword is unwavering, familiar, and his footsteps, completely silent. No wonder they hadn’t heard him approach. He’s a predator.

They pause as they reach an intersection. Following the red man’s lead, they plaster themselves against the wall even as he folds his sword arm over his chest, making Adisa gulp as the blade points at his sternum, and starts tapping his fingers over his vambrace. A blue-tinged screen—similar in color to his visor—pops up. Iverson cranes his neck to take a look, but he’s too far away. Going from Adisa’s confusion, however, nothing in there makes any sense.

When he speaks up, Iverson’s heart threatens to burst out of his chest in surprise, but it’s not English. Rather, it’s a flowing, edgy language he’s pretty sure nobody’s ever heard on Earth before. And it’s obviously not directed at any of this group, so he can only conclude that means there are others. A couple short sentences later, he falls silent and slips into a crouch.

“Now what?” Petrov whispers, rather loudly.

He shrinks as the man cuts a sharp glance over to him. “Now we wait.”

And so they do. Jumping every time footsteps seem to be coming into their direction, they crouch in the shadows with no choice but to follow a stranger’s lead. He’s not sure, but from where he is, it looks like the red man has closed his eyes, and Iverson really wants to shake him and ask what the fuck he thinks he’s doing, sleeping on the job.

But he has to trust that the man knows what he’s doing, because Iverson certainly doesn’t. And the absolute lack of robots coming their way has to count for something, right?

A shadow falls over him. Iverson jumps, his heart in his throat, but it’s not a purple alien. In fact, it’s another man, this one clad in black and white and blue, and holding a heavy rifle. He moves over to the red man, and comes to a stop right in front of him. The red helmet tilts back. The newcomer grins. In one smooth, fluid motion, the Red man unfolds. He seemed so imposing, but the gunner is even taller. 

“Stay behind us,” the Blue man says.

Shoulder to shoulder, he and the other move forward, and suddenly they find themselves following the duo into a gigantic hangar.

It's teeming with alien robots.

Iverson’s ducks instinctively. He's vaguely aware that the others do, too, but nothing comes his way, and he straightens hesitantly. His eyes widen in awe at the sight. Planted in front of them, the newcomer is providing cover fire, shooting the robots down with deadly accuracy. The Red man, though, the Red man is a blur in their midst, slicing them to shreds almost too fast to track.

“This way,” the Blue man says at last, and leads them down the path that’s just been cleared, over to another, smaller open door. They scramble inside, glad for the cover.

It’s spacious enough, with benches on either side and a control panel at the front, but Iverson barely has time to take it in before he realizes the doors are closing, and the Blue man is still on the other side.

“Wait!” Hedrick cries. “What’s going on?”

The man grins at them over his shoulder. “Somebody will pick you up!”

And then he charges even as the doors hiss shut, and suddenly they’re catapulted into space, endless black and stars all around them as they spiral far and away from wherever they had been. 

* * *

 

A castle picks them up. Or to be exact, a ship shaped like a castle, all gleaming white and fluorescent blue. The man who greets them isn’t purple, but those ears aren’t from anywhere on Earth, and Iverson is starting to feel faint. Exactly how many species are there out here that they were unaware of? And how could they have missed their existence? The alien—Coran, advisor to Princess Allura of Altea, as he introduces himself, is bubbly and far more cheerful than such circumstances should allow, but he’s also efficient, and has Dos Santos in what he calls a healing pod in no time. The navigation instructor should be fixed up in two vargas, he proudly announces, and then proceeds to skip out of the room without noticing their dumbfounded expressions.

He leads them to a dining room of sorts, and gives them plates of green goo he assures them is food, before explaining that he has duties to attend to and will be back shortly to take them on a quick tour. The whirlwind of a man disappears through the door, and they’re left alone in an alien spaceship with only themselves for company. Iverson half-expects the teenagers to start chattering excitedly, but they stay quiet. Eyes distant and faces slack, they just sit there. Shock, probably. He’s feeling pretty out of it himself, to be honest. It’s not every day you find yourself abducted by genuine aliens, rescued by humans, and then picked up by yet other aliens without so much as an explanation.

This is the perfect opportunity to get himself together, however. When Coran returns, Iverson will make sure he takes control of the situation.

The goo is as disgusting as it looks, but he’s too hungry to care. Noses scrunch up, but nobody complains.

* * *

Coran shows them to the showers, and then to a long hallway lined with identical doors with instructions to help themselves to whichever room they like. They can talk once they’ve recovered a little. When asked about the red and blue men, he says they’re busy at the moment, but that they should be able to meet sometime tomorrow. The room Iverson ends up in is spartan to say the least, but all he can see is the bed and soft sheets. He’s asleep before his head touches the pillow.

* * *

Iverson wakes refreshed for the first time in what feels like months and in truth only was a week. The adjoining bathroom is clean, spacious, and provides him with everything he might need for a well-deserved shower. He feels like a new man when he steps out into the hallway. Hedrick, Petrov, Carson, and Ryu are already there, all freshly showered, and the missing members of their little group are quick to join them.

It takes a little navigating, but they manage to find the dining room by themselves. A man is there already, slumped over the table with his face nestled in his arms, hands cradling a steaming cup of what Iverson prays is coffee. Another cup sits in front of the seat next to him, and Iverson instinctively scans the room, but it’s otherwise empty. Although there could be a race of invisible aliens for all he knows, but he sure hopes not, because dammit he’s not twenty anymore, and he’s not sure his heart could take it.

That’s when the other man steps through the kitchen door, two plates of something blue and circular balanced precariously on one arm, and a pitcher of some neon orange liquid that could have been orange juice—were it not for the, er, interesting blue splotches peeking here and there as the liquid sloshes with every step—in his other hand.

Deep purple eyes narrow. A sharp word, and the other man is upright in his seat, muscles coiled and ready for action, only to relax a fraction when he sees them standing on the threshold.

“Hi!” He waves cheerfully, then conceals a yawn. “Welcome aboard! Sleep well?”

Sweeping over to them, he grabs Captain Hedrick’s hand and drops a light kiss on her knuckles with an exaggerated bow.

“Captain Hedrick, as beautiful as ever, I see!”

Eyebrows shoot up all around even as he returns to the table, but Iverson is busy looking at the two of them, a rising sense of recognition threatening to overcome him. A side glance at his fellow instructors, and he can tell they’re in the same situation. Hedrick is worrying her lip, looking perplexed, while both Ryu and Dos Santos frown in confusion.

“Have we met?” Ryu blurts out, before adding sheepishly as the man sobers up. “It’s just that you look very familiar.”

The two—red and blue, their frames seem to match—exchange a glance, before the short-haired man grins again.

“Why, Captain, I'm shocked! How could you forget your star pupil? Lance McClain at your service! And my frowny companion here is Keith Kogane.”

Iverson gapes. That can’t…that can’t be right. McClain? The over-confident kid who kept wrecking the simulator and had to be lectured at least once a week for going overboard? That gangly, annoying loudmouth who flirted with everything with a pulse? _That_ McClain?

_Impossible._

The mere idea is so dreadful he turns his eyes to the other man. _Keith Kogane_ , if…if _McClain_ is to be believed. Just as serious as before, his face impassive under their collective scrutiny. He’s grown a few inches, filled out—although nowhere near as much as McClain, who towers over them all as he rises to take the plates from him, but the most striking change about him now is the jagged scar running from his right eyebrow down to his cheekbone and across the ridge of his nose. It’s a miracle he can still see out of that eye, in Iverson’s opinion. His hair is longer, too, held in a small ponytail at the back of his head, and there’s that lethal elegance to his posture that he’d noticed yesterday on the ship.

“Wait, wait,” Petrov asks suddenly, bringing him back to the present, “you know them?”

“What do you mean, star pupil?”

McClain winks, and it’s so _jarring_ that Iverson can see it again, that face, still a little round with baby fat, those eyes downcast in shame as he reams him out for crashing _again_.

“Well,” he starts in a conspiratorial whisper, “we used to be cadets just like you, Keith and me. We were the best.”

Iverson wants to snort, but Kogane does it for him as he approaches the table with a whole new load of plates and starts laying them out. McClain glares at him, but Iverson can tell it's half-hearted at best.

“Well, until Keith was kicked out, that is.”

“Kicked out?” Carson exclaims, and yes, there it is. This kid is far too arrogant and proud of belonging to the Garrison for his own good, to the point that anybody who didn't make it—or, in this case, got kicked out—instantly loses his respect. “Seriously? I didn’t think that was even possible.”

Dark purple eyes turn to him, and then to Iverson, who glares right back. Oh, he remembers. He remembers _very_ well. 

“They were lying. I didn’t like it.”

Five years ago, Kogane would have punched Carson in the face. Now, he just answers calmly, but Carson is like a dog with a bone. 

“Lying about what?”

Kogane shrugs and sits down, obviously done with this conversation. Iverson opens his mouth to tell the kid to drop it, but McClain speaks up before he can.

“Well, I don’t know how well they covered it up, but about seven years ago, one of the instructors, Shiro, went missing with his crew during the Kerberos mission. The Garrison told everybody they had crashed due to pilot error, but some people, including Keith here, investigated and found out that it was all bullshit.”

“How so?” Adisa asks, eyes burning with curiosity.

“There wasn’t a shred of evidence of a crash on Kerberos,” a new voice pipes up from the door, and Iverson turns to see a vaguely familiar face walk in. It’s a young woman this time, hair short and round glasses and hazel eyes, and it’s not much of a leap to realize that’s another of his missing students.

“Gunderson!”

“Holt, actually,” she comments in a bored tone as she takes a seat to Kogane’s left. “When you banned me from Garrison property, I disguised myself as a boy, used a fake name, and enlisted.” She drops it all like deceiving a government-funded organization is a piece of cake, like it's an everyday occurrence. Iverson grits his teeth, but swallows back his retort. It's his own fault that he didn't notice, really. 

She starts eating in the dumbfounded silence that ensues. Carson is the first to gather his composure, and turns back to McClain.

“How does this all tie in to Kogane being kicked out?”

Something flashes in McClain’s blue eyes, but it’s gone too fast to identify. He slings an arm around Kogane’s shoulders.

“Keith here was pretty close to Shiro. When they told him to stop digging, he kinda…punched Iverson here in the face.” He gestures at Iverson for further emphasis.

“Holy shit.” It’s Petrov, and his tone is almost reverent as he stares at Kogane across the table. Iverson doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like it at all.

“Yeah, you need to stop punching people in the face when you disagree with them,” Gunderson— _Holt_ says.

“I don’t punch people in the face,” Kogane mutters.

“Much. Anymore,” McClain adds laughingly.

“Most of the people we disagree with these days are Galra anyway,” a new voice says soothingly as the man—and yes, there goes another one of his former cadets—moves towards the table. “Hunk Garret,” he introduces himself with a warm smile. 

Asana's inquiry of "Were you a cadet, too?" goes unheard under McClain's drawl. 

“Nah, I think you’re forgetting the Tahelirian Emperor.”

“He deserved it.”

“Flirting with Pidge doesn’t constitute a criminal offense, Keith,” Garret says.

“He wasn’t flirting, he was leering. And I didn’t like his tone.”

“He _was_ an asshole,” McClain nods distractedly. “And his face when you laid him out was hilarious.”

“Good times,” Holt smirks. “Allura was furious, though.”

“Nah,” Garret smiles, “she got it once we explained the situation.”

“She had Coran make Nangzil,” Kogane smirks, smug as they come, as if the word holds any significance. And it seems to, because the others perk up instantly. Garret even looks a little nostalgic. 

“Ooh,” McClain exclaims. “That’s true. I’d actually forgotten about that.”

“What’s…Nani…gazil?” Carson, not one to be excluded from conversation, interjects.

“Nangzil. It’s this dish from planet Almetria, not too far from Taujeer. The locals were a little weird, but friendly enough once you get past all the hard chitin and creepy white eyes,” Garret explains patiently. “Anyway, Nangzil is pretty easy to make once you have all the correct ingredients, but those aren’t easily found off-planet, so we had to stock up before take-off. We only have it for special occasions.”

“So, this Allura was basically rewarding Kogane for punching an _emperor_ in the face?”

A pause. The four glanced at each other.

“Pretty much, yeah,” Holt snorts.

“What the fuck,” Carson bites out.

The conversation lulls a little at that, and Iverson takes his chance.

“So that’s where the four of you disappeared to for five years? Outer space?”

McClain nods. Him being the spokesperson doesn’t come as much of a surprise: Kogane was always aloof even before he was kicked out, and Holt loved her computers more than human company. Garret, on the other hand, was as amicable as they come, but his gentle nature usually took a backseat to McClain’s boisterous personality.

“Yeah, I don’t know if Coran explained about Voltron?” He gets nods from around the table. “We were chosen as Paladins—Voltron pilots, basically. It was something of a shock, when we first got here, let me tell you.”

He smiles at his companions, and Iverson can’t help but do a doubletake at the expression, the unadulterated affection in his features as he looks at the three of them, his arm still wrapped around Kogane’s shoulders.

And isn’t that a marvel in itself. Kogane the lone wolf, who barely opened his mouth except when absolutely necessary and stayed by himself, spent his free time studying and training, accepting casual touch from a human being other than Shirogane. Even then, it had taken months for the instructor to tame him, and longer still to befriend him. Once that was done, though, they had become inseparable, and Iverson spares a regretful thought to the missing pilot, thinks he’d have liked to see his protégé now. Yet, there had always been that underlying violence boiling inside, right under Kogane's skin, begging to be let out. 

“Chosen how?” Carson again, his tone blatantly disbelieving, and while Iverson _is_ curious about that as well, the expression that just flashed on McClain’s face makes him wish the boy would shut his mouth, or at least speak a little more respectfully. Alienating the people who rescued them from captivity and possible torture isn’t a good idea, especially when it’s damn obvious that they care about each other very much. McClain might be good-natured, but his tolerance is about to run out, and Iverson does _not_ want to be there when that happens.

Still, the man lets no hint of irritation leak into his demeanor as he wriggles his fingers.

“Magic,” he smirks as Holt starts muttering angrily. “It’s been driving Pidge crazy.”

“I’ll figure it out,” she vows, pointing her fork at him, “and then you’ll feel sorry for all the times you mocked me, you’ll see.”

McClain throws his head back and laughs, and Kogane smiles a little, too. Garret, chuckles at the scene.

“Did you talk to Coran about how you came to be in space?” The atmosphere sobers up at Kogane’s question, but he doesn’t waver, eyes fixed on Iverson. It’s a little disconcerting, being the focus of this purple gaze. He remembers them from five years ago, narrowed and full of barely repressed rage. When the kid threw the first punch, he thought he would try to kill him. There was so much anger, so much uncontrolled hatred, it was like he was mad, possessed, maybe.

The intensity, the boiling aggression are still there, but they're different. Kogane’s grounded, anchored by some invisible tethers Iverson suspects lead to the other Paladins. His innate violence is channeled and perfectly controlled. He won’t let himself be goaded into a fight by anybody and their mother the way he used to anymore.

McClain is similar, but different. All of them, really. Still and focused. He can barely recognize them.

“Not really,” Hedrick offers. “He explained to us about…Voltron and the Galra, but that’s it.” She glances down the table at her students and fellow instructors. “Do you want to hear about it now?”

Kogane shakes his head, already rising. “We’ll debrief with the others. Mostly, we need to decide if Earth needs an intervention or if we can proceed as planned.”

“Earth’s been spinning just fine without you for the past five years,” Carson mutters, but Kogane obviously hears him, as his eyes flick over to him then away.

McClain, however, seems to have had enough, and his smile is full of teeth when he replies. “Oh, darling, the reason it has is _because_ we left. If we hadn’t, you’d all be enslaved.”

Carson goes to retort, but Hedrick’s furious glare stops him, or maybe it’s the way the other Paladins are now looking down at him through narrowed eyes that promise violence if it keeps it up. His mouth shuts with an audible click, and Garret nods once to himself before disappearing through the kitchen door with their plates stacked in his arms. 

Time for debrief, then. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not super happy with this one, but there are nowhere near enough PoV Outsider stories in this fandom, and I had to get it out of my system. 
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://tangodancer91.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
